


Small miracles

by minavagante (prouvairing)



Series: oh partisan, take me away [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Italy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Decadenza Berlusconi, Italian Character(s), Italian Politics, M/M, Sentenza Mediaset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/minavagante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two times justice made Enjolras incredibly excited, much to Grantaire's benefit. </p><p>(Or: the Amis and Italian politics)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We won the war and it wasn’t easy at all

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Piccoli Miracoli](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021009) by [minavagante (prouvairing)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/minavagante). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relevant headcanons: Feuilly and Bahorel are a thing, Montparnasse is pining after Jehan but is unrequited. Montparnasse, Feuilly e Cosette grew up together at the San Musano (which is also an orphanage – Cosette isn’t technically an orphan, but spent all her time there ‘cause she and Fantine stayed with Myriel) and are therefore buddies.
> 
> In this they’re waiting for the verdict of the Mediaset trial, which came in this summer, because the Amis would seriously be all over that. If you have no idea what’s going on [have a fun little reading](http://www.irishtimes.com/news/world/europe/berlusconi-awaits-mediaset-trial-ruling-1.1480938)
> 
> Small note: chapter one was originally written in Italian, then translated, while chapter two was originally written in English. Because reasons.

They spend a whole day shut inside the San Musano, with laptops on and the TV set on the news, waiting for the verdict of the Mediaset trial.

Èponine is trying to keep an eye on her Twitter feed, fighting with the subpar wi-fi of the oratory, a tab open on her Tumblr dashboard, one on Facebook and one on #SentenzaMediaset.

Beside her, Combeferre has his tablet open and watches the websites of at least ten newspapers.

Cosette claimed the shabby couch, and watches the news with hawk-eyes, Feuilly curled up at her right and a supremely bored Montparnasse filing his nails at her left.

Marius is sitting at Cosette’s feet and even her fingers carding through his hair cannot soften the worried look on his face.

Joly is in the armchair, strangling Bossuet’s hand, who’s perched on the arm, while Musichetta sits in his lap and chews on one of her own dark curls in worry.

Enjolras hasn’t sat down in two hours. He walks back and forth frantically and keeps muttering things like, “It can’t go any other way…” and “If there’s justice in the world…” and “But this is Italy afterall…”

“Find peace, Apollo!” Grantaire urges, sitting at one of the plastic tables and playing cards with Bahorel, Courfeyrac and Jehan. The three of them keep getting distracted, glancing at the TV, Courfeyrac and Jehan especially. Bahorel is already planning a protest in case the verdict is unsatisfactory. Knowing Bahorel, it won’t be a peaceful one.

Grantaire, too, keeps getting distracted from the game, except he isn’t watching the news, but Enjolras.

It’s telling of his state of mind, that Enjolras does nothing but glare at the cynic, as if to say, _Peace? I can never find peace!_

Right then, Bahorel shouts an enthusiastic “MERDA!”, and the three of them hurry to slam their hands on the deck with loud bang. Grantaire whines, his hand on top of all others. Coufeyrac laughs in his face, picks a card out of the deck and hands it to him with a smirk. “Seven bags, _bello mio_.”

“You disgust me,” Grantaire replies, throwing the cards in his face. Jehan chuckles, as Grantaire stands, ignoring Courfeyrac’s protest. “C’mon, R, don’t be a sore loser!”

“ _Ta gueule, fils de pute,_ ” he answers, without heat. Courfeyrac swoons. “Oh, yes, ‘Aire, I love it when you speak French to me!”

No one notices the blush creeping up Enjolras’ neck, not even Grantaire, who is approaching him. Enjolras jumps, when the other boy lays a hand on his shoulder. Grantaire is regarding him seriously, his breath fanning Enjolras’ cheek.

“You know, right,” says Grantaire “that even if they declare him guilty, nothing will change? At best, he’ll leave and we’ll get his daughter, and she seems even worse.”

Enjolras’ eyes flare up for a moment, but even he recognizes the truth in those words. It isn’t cynicism, but realism: the corruption, problems and inability of the government to act will linger. Nothing is changing.

Enjolras shrugs. “At least it’s a step in the right direction,” he says, and Grantaire’s eyes widen at Enjolras almost agreeing with him.

Maybe it really is a day of miracles.

When the verdict arrives, everyone is standing, and their joy is _loud_. Bahorel and Feuilly, who were at opposite ends of the room, meet in the middle in a passionate kiss. Courfeyrac grabs Jehan, who shrieks when the other practically throws him up in the air. Cosette is strangling both Montparnasse – who is eyeing giggling Jehan and Courfeyrac with murderous eyes – and Marius – who in contrast smiles as if Christmas had come in summer. Èponine has thrown her arms around Combeferre, almost knocking his glasses off, while Musichetta and Bossuet plant synchronized kisses on Joly’s cheeks.

And Grantaire, who has found himself with an armful of young revolutionary god, is spitting out sun-blond hair. His heart is practically exploding.

Bahorel breaks off from Feuilly with a wet smacking sound, and roars, “FUCK YES, HE’S GUILTY, THE ASSHOLE! GUILTY!”

Grantaire laughs and Enjolras rises from his shoulder, stunning in his joy, and if he lightens his grip on the cynic, he doesn’t move away. A blush dusts his cheeks and his blue eyes are laughing. “It might be a small victory, but it’s a victory all the same, isn’t it?” he says, almost shy.

Grantaire, for once, is struck speechless. He simply nods. The Friends keep laughing and shouting around them and someone calls for a celebratory round of spaghetti.

Indeed, a day of miracles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:
> 
> -The card game the boys are playing is lots of fun: you pass around cards until you get all four of the same number and then you slap the deck in the center and yell “MERDA!” (there’s a clean version, in which you yell “TAPPO!”, which means cork but really, the whole point of the thing is that you get to yell MERDA!) the others have to rush to slap their hands on top of yours and the one that does it last has to pick a random card out of the deck, and the number written on the card is the “bags of shit” they get. At the end, the one with the least “shit” wins. If you pick the wild card, it “cleans” you of all your “shit.” This is the sort of thing you play at summer camp when you’re bored so I would know.
> 
> -#SentenzaMediaset was a thing, I’m told, I’m not much on Twitter though
> 
> -Shit went down since the trial, and Berlusconi still manages to be a royal pain the ass <3 Fucking pig collapsed the government again, which is why we Italians were sort of meh about the US shutdown IT ISN’T LIKE IT DOESN’T HAPPEN ALL THE TIME TO US (of course, the US is much more influential than we can ever hope to be, so it’s actually a big deal internationally… still though. Politicians being fucking menchildren is nothing new to us). --- **this is my note as of 9 Oct, 13 OTHER SHIT WENT DOWN, hence the second chapter**
> 
> -Chapter title a translation of the lyrics of "Abbiamo vinto la guerra" by Lo Stato Sociale <3 not even the best quote but I'm saving that one for something special


	2. and since we had rounds to spare we stayed to win the peace as well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO BERLUSCONI WAS KICKED OUT OF THE GOVERNMENT YESTERDAY. The Youtube video I had Enjolras pull up exists and I am laughing too hard to even get mad at the bullshit that clown is spewing <3  
> Because we had to celebrate, I thought "what better way to do it than with E/R DMAU makeouts"  
> None.
> 
> RELEVANT HEADCANON: R got held back two years, once at his third year and once because he failed the Maturità (which is the final exam... when I say "panic attacks" I am absolutely not exaggerating). This isn't uncommon at all.
> 
> **Note that chronologically this chapter takes place after[Suddenly, you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1117115/chapters/2250122)**

On the 27th of November 2013, Grantaire is allegedly looking up websites for art schools.

Fifth year is fucking killing him and a pile of books needing to be studied sits beside his laptop, so his looking into universities is just about wishful thinking: he’s still got nightmares from his first Maturità, he doesn’t know why he thinks this one’s going to go any better.

He tries not to think about it too hard, because he really doesn’t fancy having a panic attack right now.

At least, moving out has done wonders for him. The constant stress of not knowing what he’d be coming home to – tense silence or enraged shouts – is gone, and he’s found that he’s able to concentrate much better. He can put on instrumental playlists on 8tracks so that they can be heard throughout his tiny loft, instead of half-listening to them with one ear-bud in and one off, so that his father won’t be bothered and so that he’ll be able to answer right away if called.

If there’s one thing he misses, it's having Jehan near: climbing over his balcony to “do Latin homework” and knocking messages on the wall between their bedrooms.

But… there is a distinct advantage in the fact that, now, Enjolras has a spare key.

Because sometimes, like just now, while Grantaire is allegedly looking up art schools (while actually playing Candy Crush), he hears the key turn in the lock and Enjolras burst in, slamming the door.

Grantaire barely has the time to see the manic grin on Enjolras’s face (and it’s bright enough to rival the sun, for how little he manages to see). Then – in an eerie moment of déjà vu – he finds himself with an armful of young revolutionary god.

Except this time it isn’t Enjolras’s hair in his mouth, as he straddles Grantaire’s hips.

He’s still frozen in his chair, unable to let out more than a strangled “Enjolras wha – _oh!_ ” when Enjolras kisses him full on the lips.

The world fades to non-distinct white noise, zeroes in on the heat of Enjolras’s body and his lips pressing on Grantaire’s once, twice, three times in quick succession. The fourth, Grantaire finally musters the coordination to grab a handful of golden hair and hold him there. Enjolras can’t be still, however, because he is a whole lot of trouble in a very pretty package, and Grantaire knows this and yet cannot for the life of him stay away. Enjolras winds his hips slowly and deliberately, and takes advantage of Grantaire’s groan to slip his tongue in his mouth.

When he grinds down again Grantaire can only make a helpless sound and whimper against his lips, “ _Cristoddio_ , Enjolras, what the hell?”

Enjolras pulls away only to land kisses on Grantaire’s nose, his forehead and both his cheeks. “Oh my _God_ ,” Grantaire gasps. “Mind, I am absolutely, one hundred percent not complaining but _what the hell is up with you?_ ”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, but blinds him with an absolutely giddy smile that would have taken Grantaire’s breath away, were he not already gasping for air. Enjolras's cheeks are red and his eyes are sparkling and _oh my God what’s going on._

From his spot, still in Grantaire’s lap, Enjolras leans over to grab the laptop. It takes approximately ten seconds for him to pull up his Twitter feed, Repubblica’s website and a Youtube video.

Everywhere, it screams at him from the screen: DECADENZA BERLUSCONI.

Grantaire knew this was coming, but frankly he’d been so wrapped up in his own worries that he’d almost forgotten about it ( _almost_ because you can’t date Enjolras – _and oh my God he is dating Enjolras –_ without knowing all about the rise and fall of Italian politics).

“No way,” he breathes out, and Enjolras turns to let out a perfect giggle and kiss him – _again._ It’s brief and enthusiastic and when Enjolras pulls away he finally speaks, “Combeferre called to tell me,” he says. “And Courfeyrac was screaming all over my Facebook wall and the TG talked about it and I swear I heard my neo-fascist neighbor _cry_.” His smile can’t seem to subside. “It was _beautiful_ , oh, R!” Enjolras swoops down to catch his lips again, and Grantaire can do nothing but laugh in the kiss.

“You’re such a fucking nerd, Apollo,” he says against his mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thought you weren’t complaining,” Enjolras argues, raising an eyebrow. “And before you say anything, _yes,_ nothing is changing, _yes,_ we’re still fucked up, _yes I know we still don’t have a viable alternative_.” His eyes glitter, smug, like he’s won something.

Grantaire snorts. “Is there a _but_ in there or…?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and drops a single fleeting kiss on his lips. “ _But_ let’s just celebrate for a couple hours, yeah?”

Then he reaches back again and pulls up the Youtube video, muttering something like _you totally have to see this_ but Grantaire is having none of it. Just as Enjolras is pressing play, he lunges forward to suck at that sensitive spot just below Enjolras’s ear, which makes him falter and murmur a tiny, soft, “ _Oh.”_

For good measure Grantaire rolls his hips up, tearing another moan from the blonde god in his lap, so that he can feel exactly what effect his _enthusiasm_ has had on him. He’s pleased to find that Enjolras seems to be in a similar predicament.

“You said you wanted to celebrate,” Grantaire growls against his neck. “I think I have just the idea.”

The video is still going and Berlusca is saying something – making excuses or spouting some bullshit about the death of democracy – but frankly Grantaire couldn’t care less, and he’s going to prove it by standing up – Enjolras squealing at the sudden change, clinging to his neck and tightening his legs around Grantaire’s waist – and proceeding to relocate them to the bed so that he can fuck his boyfriend.

All the while, Berlusconi drones on forgotten.

 *

Much later, while Enjolras is dozing, languid and disheveled, in Grantaire’s bed, he is jolted awake by a loud bark of laughter. Grantaire – still naked, which is the one thing that Enjolras may find more interesting than politics – angles the laptop so that Enjolras can see. It’s a picture of the first page of _Il Fatto Quotidiano_.

The headline reads “E’ FUORI PUO’ ANDARE DENTRO.”

Enjolras groans and shoves at him. Grantaire laughs harder and bends to drop a kiss on his bare shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _Cristoddio_ : literally _Christgod_ , which is something I have been known to say all the time, welp.  
> \- DECADENZA BERLUSCONI: literally what it says on the tin, Berlusconi's decadence from senator.  
> \- _"E' FUORI PUO' ANDARE DENTRO": HE IS OUT HE CAN GO IN" meaning 'he is out of the government, he can go to jail" [muffled cheering]_  
>  \- I AM STILL CELEBRATING OVER HERE! No significant others to kiss, however.


End file.
